"System," Alaric thought, his voice barely a whisper in the cold air. "Who's in there?"
A blue screen flickered in his vision, scanning the carriage for life signs and family history.
[Target Identified: Roslin Frey]
[Context: Lord Walder is moving her to a Safer location under the cover of dark.]
Alaric watched the tiny figures moving below. He had agreed to Ned's request to come North for this very reason. In the orignal timeline, Roslin was the bait. The Starks had been so desperate to cross this river that they promised Robb would marry a Frey girl just to use the bridge. When Robb broke that promise, the Freys turned into butchers. The Red Wedding had started with a girl just like this one.
The sun sank into the river, turning the water a deep, bruised purple. Below, the carriage rolled on, unaware of what was watching from the ridge. Twenty guards in grey coats rode beside it, their spears bouncing against their saddles. They were laughing—the sound of men who thought their family name made them untouchable.
On the ridge, Alaric didn't move. He just waited for them to get closer.
Then, the shadows at the edge of the trees came alive.
A dark hiss cut through the air. The lead rider's joke ended in a wet choking sound as his head slid right off his shoulders. His body stayed in the saddle for three more steps, blood spraying everywhere, before the horse realized its rider was gone.
"Ambush!" a sergeant screamed, reaching for the horn at his belt.
He never touched it. A mass of black fur, as tall as a mammoth, slammed into his side. It was Rivy. Her jaws snapped shut over the man's chest, crushing his metal armor like it was a dry cracker. She shook him once, a violent blur that sprayed red mist all over the fancy blue carriage.
On the other side of the path, Livy was a whirlwind of teeth and claws. She swiped the legs out from under a horse, then crushed the rider's skull before he even hit the ground.
Inside the carriage, the world tilted. Roslin Frey was thrown against the wall as the horses panicked and the wood began to snap. The screams outside were short and terrifying. It sounded like a slaughterhouse.
Roslin pressed her back against the seat, her breath coming in fast, shallow gasps. Her fingers scrambled across the floor until they found the cold handle of a small dagger. She couldn't even scream; her throat was too dry.
The heavy door didn't just open—it was ripped back like it was made of paper.
Roslin lunged. It wasn't a real attack, just the panicked move of a trapped animal. She swung the silver blade at the shadow in the doorway, aiming for a gap in his armor.
A gloved hand snapped shut around her wrist.
It felt like hitting a stone wall. A shock ran all the way up to her shoulder, and her fingers flew open. The dagger clattered to the floor.
Alaric didn't even flinch. He yanked her forward until she hit his heavy leather chest. Roslin gasped, looking up into eyes as cold as a frozen lake. Then, she saw what was standing behind him.
The giant wolf stepped into the light of the lamps. Its face was dripping red onto the mud, and its yellow eyes were level with her own, watching her with a terrifying hunger.
Roslin's legs gave out. She went limp in Alaric's iron grip, her voice shaking. "Please... my father... Lord Walder... he has gold. Name your price."
"Gold?" Alaric's voice was a low, rough growl.
He looked over the field of dead bodies, then back at her face. A slow, mean smile pulled at his mouth—the look of a man who had just realized he made a mistake, but didn't really care.
"Seven Hells," he muttered. He let out a short laugh that sounded like stones grinding together. "The grey coats. The Twin Towers."
He let go of her arm so suddenly she almost fell. He stepped back into the mud as if she were no more important than the dirt on his boots.
"I was told a Lannister supply train was moving along the river. I've been hunting men in red since I left the city." He looked her up and down with dark amusement. "It looks like I've made a mess of your guards, little Frey."
Alaric shook his head and let out a dry huff. He looked at the carnage—the torn horses, the twisted metal, and the river of blood soaking into the ground—and then back at the girl.
Roslin couldn't speak. She stayed slumped against the broken carriage, her eyes glued to the giant wolves. Every time one of the beasts breathed, she shook. To her, Alaric wasn't a man; he was a demon who controlled monsters.
"Waste of time," Alaric muttered to the air.
He didn't help her up. He didn't tell her his name. He just turned his back and began to walk toward the trees, his boots splashing in the bloody mud. He gave a sharp, two-fingered whistle to call the wolves.
The two massive black shapes stood up from the bodies they were sniffing. They gave Roslin one last look—their yellow eyes glowing in the lamp light—before they melted into the darkness behind Alaric. For a split second, the invisible Blood Scout flickered into view like a ghost following its master, then vanished into the leaves.
Roslin watched them go, her heart thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Wait," she whispered, but the word was too quiet to hear.
The silence of the woods felt heavy. The sun was gone, leaving only a tiny bit of grey light on the horizon. The shadows of the trees stretched out like long fingers reaching for her. She looked at the bodies of her father's men—men she had known her whole life—now just piles of meat in the dirt.
A new panic, sharper and colder than the fear of the wolves, hit her. She had never been outside the walls of the Twins without a dozen guards. She didn't know the roads. She didn't know which way the river went. She was a high-born girl in a silk dress, dropped into a world of mud and teeth.
"Please!" she cried out. she scrambled out of the carriage, tripping over her own skirts. "Don't leave me here!"